Tag Archives: rhyme

Jam Jars

Imagine if Death were a child,
A curious collector of things,
Of the fireflies flickering deep in our souls,
Kept in jam jars with polka dot trims.

Indexed, and ordered, and filed,
An exquisite, unparalleled trove,
An existential menagerie, if you will,
Indiscriminate, eclectic, and bold.

And the stories that she would amass,
Vast tomes atop dust laden shelves,
The penned trinkets and temporal titbits of man,
Bedtime tales of creation itself.

There would be quiet, unassuming ones, ones driven by love,
There would be ones that stood out from the rest,
There would be tragic ones, ones that would go forever unsung,
But the simple, honest ones would be the best.

Every jar, every soul, every book, every tale,
An epitaph for the universe known,
Her museum a beacon for those passing over,
Calling them, guiding them home.

Imagine if Death were a child,
She’d be lonely, she’d be lost and afraid,
But as she toed through the interminable dark after life,
Her jam jars would light up her way.

A History Lesson

Morning, long time no write, but it’s #nationalpoetryday today so of course, I had to write a teensy little something……

A History Lesson

A flame is ignited,
Paper fans are firelighting,
A history’s divided
and the ashes fall either side,
Her story unfolds
But his story denies it
A silk net that’s entangled
with untruths inside it,
Love may be blinded
but hate sees a spectrum of shades,
Where she becomes all
because he is afraid?
Or misguided? Or privileged?
Or deeply ashamed?
That the past is not buried, forgotten, mislaid,
That from the fight for true justice
he cannot dissaude
this rainbow that broke through
the clouds that had greyed,
Of the truth that will thrive, that will grow,
that pervades,
And won’t march quietly onwards
To the drumbeat he plays,
Won’t be quelled by the promise
of thirty one days
to remember, and teach, and sing out
of an age
when he was her master
and she was his slave.

© 2016

Popping Corn

My head is full of popping corn,
Must let the right ones in,
Some are bitter, some forlorn,
All sodden; soaked in sin.

My head is full of popping corn,
A jumbled, maze-like din,
I cannot breathe; my cords are torn,
I’m choking on the string.

My head is full of popping corn,
Can’t let the black dog win,
But his howl’s already filched my dawn,
His dark has drawn me in.

Free

In every way a lady can be free,
The Music took such gentle hold of me,
Hand resting in the nuance of my waist,
He led me pirouetting into grace,
Removed the shawl bejewelled with my past,
Unbound me from the spell that doubt had cast.
Lightened by the soothing lilt of joy,
His rhythm twirled this girl (unworldly, coy),
‘Til chains had turned to stardust at my feet,
And freedom strummed my heart with every beat.

 

This poem was inspired by the Poem A Day prompt over at Pooky’s Poems. Today’s challenge (set by guest poet CC) was to write a poem that takes metre into account. I tried here for iambic pentameter, but can’t be sure I have it quite right. Ether way, I had fun trying and feel accomplished having put more thought into the metre of my poetry!